ReCycled Paper
by Neftzer
Summary: What your day might be like when you get tomorrow's paper, today--in the Witchblade universe. Xover, Early Edition.


Behold: Time Runs Two Ways  
Scenario One: **Re-Cycled Paper**

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As it did every morning at the door to the apartment over McGinty's Bar, in the city of Chicago, tomorrow's paper arrived--today. Gary Hobson, designated recipient of said paper, gave a small groan and made his way, eyes still half-shut, toward the door and the sound of a mewing cat--an unpleasant side bar to receiving the paper. Hobson did not particularly like cats, and this one he liked significantly less than others, but much like the burden of the paper that accompanied it, he had learned to make a space for it in his life. 

Like the studied pro that he was, he scanned through the pages of tomorrow's _Chicago Sun-Times_ in a matter of minutes--absorbing little more than the times listed--until he was satisfied that he had enough time to shower and dress for the day before tackling whatever obstacles the supernaturally 'early edition' might present for that day. 

Once dressed, he made his way downstairs, where he often found himself of a slow morning, eating breakfast and sitting with Marissa, reading his blind best friend tomorrow's news today. It was after this that he would usually formulate his plan of attack, sometimes sharing it with Marissa, sometimes having to rush out before his coffee had time to even turn cold. 

"Morning, Gary," Marissa called as he entered the back office, stacked boxes of a variety of beers as usual lending an air of stockroom spillover chic to the area. He wondered momentarily if the clutteredness of the area proved awkward for Marissa when it came to getting around, and made a mental note to ask her about it later. 

"Morning, Marissa. Nothing before the afternoon," he replied before she could ask, relief no doubt evident in his voice. 

"Great," she said. "Then you might get a chance to finish your breakfast for once." She laughed quietly. 

He smiled in reply, though he knew she couldn't see it, and being in an above-average good mood, asked her what she'd like to be read from the paper. 

Marissa was visibly taken aback, since the offer of getting read to from tomorrow's paper today was one seldom extended--to her or anyone else. "Well," she paused for a moment, "how about a few headlines--or the front page lead story?" 

"Okay," he agreed, sitting back and taking a drink of coffee. 

"'_Vorschlag Icon Slain in Unexplained Massacre_.'" 

"What?" Marissa's eyebrows drew together in concern. That was not a normal headline. 

"You know, that Kenneth Irons-guy, owns most of New York and other parts of the world--" 

"Yeah. And that's the headline? A New York-based story?" 

"Yeah," Gary told her. "That's the headline. I guess it's pretty big news. It ain't Brad Pitt gettin' married, but it's big news." 

"Gary," Marissa became intent--in the way he always knew was going to lead to something uncomfortable. "Has this ever happened before?" 

"What, a lead story not from Chicago?" He thought for a moment. "Yeah, I don't think so--can't really remember." He thought a moment longer. "I guess Lucius Snow got the paper about the Kennedy Assassination, and that was in Dallas. But me? Yeah, I don't think so--or if it did it was too far away for me to do anything about it." 

"Do you mind reading me the story?" Marissa asked, still bent slightly forward, her full attention focused on the paper in his hands. 

He skimmed the story, fore-going reading it out loud in favor of summarizing. "Says here that five bodies were found, dead, at the New Jersey mansion of Vorschlag magnate Kenneth Irons in the early evening. A call was put in by Irons' personal physician, a Dr. Immo, who claims to have survived the blood bath by fleeing the scene. Among the dead were two cops--one also an undercover FBI agent--they're not releasing his name--also, Irons and his personal bodyguard were found dead, and a fourth man that authorities were as-yet unable to connect to the others. Looks like the police captain of the officer's precinct was also reported dead, off-site, earlier in the day." He stopped, mulling the facts over. "I don't know, Marissa--this sounds more like something for Jessica Fletcher than for us." 

"You sound hesitant," she replied. 

"Well, yeah, I sound hesitant. We don't do gangland murders, we don't solve mysteries--and we don't work out of New York. What's not to sound hesitant about? I mean, I'm sorry these folks got themselves killed, but I don't see what I can do about it--" 

"The paper sent this to _you_, Gary--you admitted that most other national stories don't come in the paper to you, that it never sends you things you can't make an effort at changing." 

Gary sighed. He had been enjoying the idea of a morning off. "I guess I could make a few calls--but still, we know so little about it, about the people involved. It's not like I can call this Vorschlag guy's office and get any genuine response by telling them that their company's owner and president is going to be offed this afternoon under unexplainable circumstances--" He shrugged. 

"Try the police precinct," Marissa counseled. "You've got the names of one of the officers, right?" 

"Yeah, Detective Sara Pezzini, Homicide." 

Marissa sighed. "What were you doing there, Sara?" she asked to the air in front of her, as though questioning the NYPD detective in person. 

"Well, what should I tell this detective, Marissa? You know my track record where the police are concerned isn't so great." He chuckled self-consciously. "I'm probably in a file labeled 'crackpot' even as far away as New York." 

"We'll put in an anonymous call--I can do it if you like--tell them that something's going to happen this afternoon at the Vorschlag estate. Then they'd be compelled to at least check in to it--right?" 

Gary handed her the phone, and Marissa went about getting the number of the 11th Precinct from information, and he went back to his coffee and looking at the paper. 

"Hey, Marissa," he said, looking up. "You could always tell them you were a psychic--" he cut himself off upon seeing that she had finally gotten an operator and was in the process of being given the station's phone number. He turned his attention back to the paper. 

"It takes forever to get what you need from information—" Marissa grumbled quietly, now on hold. "I might as well have called the movie line--" 

Gary reached over and cut off her connection. 

"What?" she asked, confused at the dial-tone playing in her ear. 

"It's gone," he said. 

"Gone?" 

"Story's changed. Headline now reads, '_Sears Tower Restoration Project Budget Passes_.'" 

"All because I called information?" 

"That doesn't seem likely. I don't know what happened." He quickly leafed through the rest of the paper. "It's not mentioned anywhere else--like it never was mentioned at all." 

"Maybe it was just a glitch, a hiccup. Maybe someone else--someone in New York--took care of it." 

"Well, you change your tune pretty fast, there, Marissa. Fifteen minutes ago you were convinced that I needed to do everything in my power to hop a plane to New York City and try to put a stop to all this." 

"Well," she was reaching, "maybe things just righted themselves." 

"Maybe," Gary Hobson agreed begrudgingly, looking at the newspaper with tomorrow's date that he had received today. He couldn't explain the story disappearing without cause any more than he could explain the daily fact that he got the paper early, and with it the opportunity to change the day's outcome. Maybe, as Marissa suggested, things had righted themselves. Maybe--but it would be a first. Perhaps this was a new aspect of his "subscription"--though he couldn't see what purpose it would serve. Why tell him about something he did not have the power to change, and then show him that it _had_ changed? What new sort of head game would that be? He snorted, this would be bothering him for weeks--and bothering him worse anytime they had the Vorschlag Cable News channel switched on in the bar. 

Leave it to the paper to spoil his only free morning in the past four months. 

_...the end..._

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by: Neftzer 2002  
_Feedback Appreciated!_ I don't own _Early Edition_ or _Witchblade_, or their characters. I'm just trying to work off some steam regarding Season Two on the heavy bag, here. Look for other scenarios by in the, "Behold, Time Runs Two Ways," series. 


End file.
